Sitting in This Park

Sitting in this Park


Sitting in this park

Listening to the sounds of the city

The rustle of leaves and coos of pigeons drowned out

by the hollering hearts

Standing on the paved ways

in the way

out of the way


He plays his guitar, voice amplified

baggy pants, small cap, bedraggled hair

Sings for the passers-by and the cafe goers

as they sip their caffeine, only £2


She is silent but her art is loud, it squeaks, rubs

Pops, the child jumps, distract with another

She twists and pulls and hopes her creation will entice the child

in the stroller enough to coax the cash from father’s wallet


They don’t sing for cash but to be heard, to be seen

To protest raising the army from cradle to football field

Their songs rise, haunting harmonies, the beauty of generations

Bright signs in Welsh and English, no excuse


She stands in the path between market and church, peddling the gift

Plucked banjo strings for your cash

Or perhaps a conversation about the gloves she wears

Where did you learn to play like that


And the sun shines, a spotlight on the shoppers and performers

Both going about life, their lives, life goes on

Whether the yawning case, the open palm gets its fill, or not

The banjo, lifted voices, rattle of a tambourine, rogue pop

The soft coo and loud flapping, the sound of sunshine interrupting dialogue

And I’m just sitting in this park

Just visiting, just passing through

Sitting in this park

I still can’t find its name


A woman sitting near me in a park in Cardiff, near the Cardiff Market


Cardiff, Saturday April 15, noon


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